Page 16 of Dagger

“Dagger,” I reply, keeping my voice calm and steady. No need to flex. My name’s all the weight I need.

The two of them exchange a glance, then step back, letting the gate creak open.

“Park by the main building,” the first guy says. “Harlan’s inside.”

I nod and ease my bike forward, my eyes scanning the compound as I roll in. Bikers are scattered around the yard, some working on bikes, others lounging with cigarettes and drinks. There’s a tension in the air, though—something just under the surface that doesn’t sit right.

I park near the main building, cutting the engine and stepping off my bike. The moment my boots hit the ground, I feel the weight of eyes on me. They’re watching—some curious, some suspicious. I ignore them and head for the door.

Harlan Scott, huh? Let’s see what the hell kind of mess I’ve been dragged into.

Walking inside, I can feel the tension hit me like a wall. Eyes follow me, sideways glances from every corner of the room. The air is heavy, charged, like everyone’s waiting for something to go down. It’s not the usual clubhouse vibe—it’s tighter, harsher.

My eyes sweep the room until I spot Harlan at a table in the back. He looks up, and his gaze locks on mine. He lifts a hand, motioning me over.

The shift in the room is immediate. The men watching me size me up one last time but stand down when they see Harlan’s signal. Guess I’m cleared—for now.

I make my way across the room, boots scuffing against the old wood floor, ignoring the lingering stares. Harlan’s eyes don’tleave mine, and when I reach the table, he gestures to the chair across from him.

“Dagger,” he says, his voice low and rough. “Been a while.”

I nod, lowering myself into the seat. “It has. Place doesn’t feel like I remember, though.”

He snorts, leaning back in his chair. “Yeah, we’ve had to lock it down. Shit’s changed since South Dakota.”

I glance around again, the tension in the room still buzzing under my skin. “What the hell’s going on, Harlan? This place feels more like a fortress than a clubhouse.”

He sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “We’re in deep, brother. Some of our guys went rogue, and now they’re causing trouble, stirring shit up with people we don’t want problems with.” He leans forward, his voice dropping. “It’s bad. Real bad. That’s why Mason sent you. Figured you’d know how to handle it.”

I study him for a second, his face lined with exhaustion. Whatever this mess is, it’s taken a toll.

“Alright,” I say, leaning back. “Lay it out for me. Let’s get this shit handled.”

Harlan nods, his expression hard. This isn’t going to be easy—but it’s what I came here for.

The roar of my bike cuts out as I park in front of the Iron Valkyries' compound, my eyes scanning the place. It looks more like a prison than a clubhouse. Tall fences topped with barbed wire surround the property, and cameras are perched at every corner. The tension in the air is almost palpable, even before I step inside.

The gate creaks open after one of their guys gives me a once-over, his sharp eyes narrowing before he waves me through. I roll in, passing groups of men working on bikes, smoking, and watching me like I might be a threat. The place is busy, but there’s an edge to it, like everyone’s waiting for something to happen.

I park near the main building, kick down my stand, and swing off my bike. The second my boots hit the ground, I feel the weight of their stares. Harlan better have a damn good reason for dragging me all the way out here.

Inside, the tension only thickens. Guys lean against walls, their eyes following me as I make my way to the back of the clubhouse. A few nod in acknowledgment, but most just stare. The place is rough—scuffed floors, peeling paint, and the faint smell of oil and stale beer.

Harlan’s sitting at a beat-up wooden table in the corner, his back to the wall. The guy hasn’t changed much since the last time I saw him. Still stocky, with a beard that’s more gray than black now, and eyes that seem to catch everything.

“Dagger,” he says, standing as I approach. He claps me on the shoulder, his grip firm. “Appreciate you coming, brother.”

“Would’ve been nice to know what I was walking into,” I say, my voice gruff.

He chuckles, motioning for me to sit. “Fair enough. Let’s get into it.”

I drop into the chair across from him, and he leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. “We’ve got a problem with some of our own,” he starts. “Couple of guys went rogue, started dealing on the side without club approval. We shut it down, or so we thought. Turns out, they’ve been stirring shit up behind our backs. They’ve got some locals involved now, and it’s turning into a damn mess.”

“How big of a mess?” I ask, my jaw tightening.

“Big enough,” he says, his voice hard. “They’ve been cutting deals with the Sable Serpents—you know them?”

I nod. “Ran into them a few years back. Bad news.”

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